


Elegy to the Devil

by Thefacelesswriter



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Lovely Vodka, Simple Rambling, X-men - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7006645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thefacelesswriter/pseuds/Thefacelesswriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crippled angel sits in the rafters and allows himself to consider that night when he was ruined for vodka allows despair to go down much smoother. Such dreary topics are always worth drinking to. A lamentation in the eyes of the nameless Warren Worthington. Set in X-Men: Apocalypse with some spoilers, like two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elegy to the Devil

Sitting in the makeshift attic of an old metal factory, drinking vodka that out priced everything he owned, and furious, self loathing lamenting. It had become the daily routine when the fighting ring was forcibly closed down. Now every Sunday Angel would creep through the night and break through the skylight of the failing liquor shop’s storeroom and pilfer the tinned sardines and bottle upon bottle of blissful alcohol. That was his routine now. It was the death of his old life and it wasn’t the first time it had occurred. That life of violence had been years long, a living made on blood and cruelty. It was a life Warren would have found sickening though he too was dead. Angel found it tolerable if not enjoyable. It was, as humans said, a living. 

Once the coordinators had so conveniently returned to the shadows the authorities had fallen upon the place like crows on carrion. Arrests were made but few were just. The venue, already a place the rats had abandoned, was ruthlessly stripped clean of metal tipped whips and electric wiring. Angel had watched it take place, at first amused until the officers continued to pry and he realized that eventually he would be found upon the highest rafters. His home was nothing much; a candle stuck in a glass bottle perched on a wobbly milk crate, a few paperbacks he’d stolen (none good), a mattress squashed in the highest corner that always smelt of moist rotting supplied by the ringleaders because despite everything said they knew he lived there. With rocks and nails he’d hammered some magazine pages onto the wooden rafters, pictures of human girls doing human things, an American war plane streaking blue across an already idyllic sky: Mystique. All that had remained behind. He’d launched himself through a high window and in exhilaration forgotten the damage done. His lame wing sagged and his strong one flapped with fury as he tried to remain airborne through the quiet streets of Berlin. In the dark of the night nobody could see his shameful struggle from one abandoned place to the next, this one on the edge of the city with a population of a dozen pigeons and the occasional vagabond. He’d clung to the cracked windows and slid down the glass, gasping for a breath of air and a way in. Exhausted, Angel remained that way until dawn came in light streaks and touched his wings like gentle fingers. It was the first time he’d seen sun in weeks, or a month. Warren had loved the sun.

The vodka was running out faster than he’d hoped. When one is lost in thought the searing taste is lost and it becomes easy to swallow, allows the painful memories to slide by without true consideration. Hence the alcoholic and Angel laughed as nothing else seemed as amusing as that, his inevitable future. He stood, strolling along his beams, lightly hopping from one to another, strangling the bottle’s neck in his right hand. It became a game to walk forwards and then backwards, leap to the next one and repeat. The moon had risen high and Angel could see its white face through the plastic roof dotted with disrepair. He wanted to fly, shoot himself upwards with the force of an army jet and feel the wind tear the skin from his skull. To fly above the clouds and suddenly tuck his wings tightly inward, floating one moment before descending to the earth like a rocket ship. People would point and stare and scream as he plummeted and perhaps he wouldn’t release his wings and simply collide with the earth. To feel something other than dull, numbing pain would be a blessing. He began to think of the night it had occurred. Angel recalled the devil called Nightcrawler.

Of course he’d seen mutants before. In the underground pits they were as common as dogs, cocks, and bears. They were unregistered and nameless with no family or friends to question why they had disappeared. He, Angel, had killed mutants. Two, at least. Each time it had been unintentional, a misinterpretation on how far the opponent could bend. It was all for the audience and, though it was painful to admit, to keep his own skin unscathed. In the end they had snapped, both of them, facing a harsh contrast of primal howling and horrified silence that could never be imagined. The man at the cage door usually carried the body out, dragging it by the feet and right back out the door they’d came in. (Angel had wondered whether they would’ve placed Nightcrawler back in his box had he perished). Sometimes there was blood. Once it was a sickly blue. It had stained the floor no matter how much sawdust they used. It had clung to his spurs though he needed no physical reminder of the guilt.

Angel recalled feeling his heartbeat in his ears as he heard the introduction as the humans carried a twitching box to the door. They’d opened its hatch and the laughter that arose was appalling. The devil had shied from it and from him. He was the product of fear and embarrassment, dressed in a tattered ringmaster’s outfit to further insist this creature was more entertainment that conscience. He was truly a mutant. This one would never be able to integrate into society he remembered thinking as he outstretched his wings and readied his spurs. His place would always be here, to be mocked and abused for the enjoyment of human beings. His death would bring him peace this world would never give him.

“Nightcrawler” he announced and it echoed menacingly, just as it had that night. He quietened his tone. “Nightcrawler, you gotta have a real name somewhere, but I don’t know it. Maybe you don’t know it either. If you don’t I’m sorry. I’m lucky to still have mine, though nobody knows me by it. Warren Worthington is dead in the ground along with his name and fortunes.” He thrust his bottle to the roof towards the dozing pigeons. They had nothing to say. Nevertheless he continued, feeling mildly foolish, hopping to another beam. “If I didn’t attack you they would’ve killed us both, like I told you. If you don’t get cooked on the cage they’ll shoot you from all directions and keep shooting until you’re dead. That’s why I fight and I’m pretty sure that’s why you fought too. Neither of us wanted to die. Though we’ve been fighting our whole lives, haven’t we?” He drank again. The vodka was dangerously low. It was the thought of that cage that had him shivering; how his wing had smelt when burnt. “We are mutants therefore we must fight for our right to be alive. Whoops!”

Angel slipped, wobbled on the beam, found himself tipping and began to flap his limp wing. It struggled fiercely and he gritted his teeth and forced it to push him back to standing. “God damn fucking useless thing!” It folded back against him and he couldn’t deny the pain that travelled through it. “See, you’re the only one who did this to me, ruined me. I don’t think I’ll ever recover. I’ll be forced to move in with these pigeons and live off lice and newspaper like a lame old bird.” It felt like someone was listening, shielded by the shadows, watching his pathetic display. Still, he continued. “I’ve fought loads of freaks but never have I fought for my life like that. Your power... you could kill whoever you wanted, drop them off the top of the Cologne Cathedral before they could even scream. You’d have been a greater fighter. We could have been devastating and because of that these people would have treated us better, maybe even treated us right. Imagine how we could’ve turned these assholes on their heads and changed the whole game! An angel and a devil and one tenth of a bottle of vodka. Cheers” He tipped the final shot into his mouth and swallowed it with pride. This bottle had originally been reserved for the raw skin on his gimp wing, liquid courage to help as he plucked the broken feathers out. They still hung pitifully from the bone. That plan however was pushed further into the future where all the possibilities resided. For now he would be fine, and tomorrow he would be fine as well.

“And maybe one day we’ll meet again and I’ll get to apologize for almost killing you and you’ll hopefully apologize for ruining my life.” His wings twitched against his spine, “and then we can drink some lovely vodka, which I no longer have, and talk and maybe even be friends. I don’t have any of those. I have people who know me but not for the right reasons. I’m just Angel to them. A fallen angel, that is.” Now he was properly drunk and it was best to end the elegy to a devil there. “You probably are dead, after everything went to hell. Maybe you used your power to get you out of there and then what? You’ve been raped by this world and what’s harder than being in this world is being in it with no humans to protect you. So that’s it, that’s all I gotta say. And I’m talking to myself because I haven’t spoken to another person in three weeks and I’m not going to stoop low enough to talk to the fucking pigeons. But I guess it could be worse.” It would only get worse.

From down below he saw silhouettes at the entrance and snapped to attention. He saw the three figures and wondered if one of them was Nightcrawler. That would be perfectly poetic and therefore utterly impossible. Life was cruel but one’s own mind was even more sadistic. Warren sighed, squeezed the empty bottle before throwing it hard towards the ground where it would surely shatter beside their feet. It did though they did not retreat and barely moved. The young man smirked and readied his aching wings.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, apologies if I got anything sinfully wrong with Angel and Nightcrawler. I'm not too familiar with the comics or the earlier movies but do know I tried very hard and didn't completely pull this from my ass. Not all of it, that is. This story is set strictly in X-men Apocalypse after shit hits the fan at the fighting ring. It's simply something I wanted to write because Apocalypse had very little Angel and I just decided to make up for that and maybe some of you will enjoy the end result. If you do then leave a comment or a kudos. I appreciate every kudos and read each comment and love talking to you all. Hope you found some enjoyment. Now off you go to read more X-men stories.


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